


burn this world; it's ours anyway

by hart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, Nasty, Rough Sex, Violence, although not really, bad people doing bad things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart/pseuds/hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If James Moriarty can burn men down, he can build them up too. But Sebastian Moran isn't his Frankenstein's monster, because although Jim's role may be the creator, he's more monster than man, himself. </p>
<p>or, a selection of fifteen linear moments detailing sebastian moran and james moriarty's relationship from the moment they meet to the moment they meet again. violence, sex, russian roulette, and designer suits are all involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn this world; it's ours anyway

**Author's Note:**

> reuploaded from my fanfiction.net account. written in 2012, and not a fandom i'm particularly in anymore, but i'm still proud enough of this work for it to not get lost.

**I**

The first time Sebastian Moran meets James Moriarty he’s smashing things in a back alley outside a sleazy night club in Croydon. He shouts, incoherent, throwing empty glass bottles, kicking cans and Jim just watches, submerged by the shadows with a curious expression on his face. Sebastian screams in frustration when his shoelace gets caught in a torn can and Jim can’t help but laugh a little. The other’s attention flicks upward, catches the white of an eye in the dark, the shine of teeth.

“Who are you?” slurs Sebastian and Jim steps forwards, bored of watching, smirking just a little. Tom Ford suit- black, velvet, out of place and untarnished by the filthy surroundings- white shirt, plain black tie- gleaming gold pin-, patent leather black shoes. Sebastian takes him in through a haze of vodka and cocaine, glances down at his own clothes. Jeans, pinstriped shirt, brogues. Crumpled, sweaty, cheap.

“Jim Moriarty,” says Jim Moriarty, his voice lilts and it’s dark and light and Sebastian thinks he might be Irish, but he’s too pissed to clearly tell.

“Whatyou wan’?” says Sebastian, keeping his distance.

“Your assistance.”

He raises an eyebrow, says “You don’ even know m'name.”

Jim Moriarty laughs again, glee filling up his huge, brown eyes. “Sebastian Moran,” he says. “You’ve just been discharged from the army- which is why, I’m guessing, you’re throwing a tantrum- you’ve written two books which no-one’s read, you can run like lightning and apparently, this is quite impressive, you chased a tiger into a drain? Now that sounds like bullshit- but you’re a skilled shot.”

Sebastian’s eyes are wide. “How did you-”

Moriarty takes a step forward and Sebastian nearly flinches. The stranger comes so close to him Sebastian can feel his breath on his face- spearmint- and Moriarty whispers “I need that shot.” Slips a small card into his front pocket, grins, says “Call me when you’re sober- you’re not much fun like this.”

Sebastian tries to read his face, but it’s like a blank page. Either that or there are simply too many words to see in this light.

“If I don’t?”

Jim Moriarty smirks again, turns on his heel and walks away, whistling.

-

 

**II**

Sherlock Holmes isn’t human, or at least that’s Jim’s theory. But then again, neither is Jim. Not quite a monster, but more than just a creature, something that feeds on chaos and gets off on danger. He is Sherlock Holmes. But less boring. He laughs, watching Holmes dance, makes a few snide comments, blows up another building, dusts down his suit and smiles.

-

 

**III**

“Seb,” says Jim and Sebastian turns with arched eyebrows, thinks _have I known this man a month yet?_ , says “Since when do we have pet names?” Jim laughs, grin animalistic, and he turns a pirouette in the middle of the dusty flat, says “Home sweet home.”

Sebastian- or Seb; he doesn’t quite know now and that’s what Jim Moriarty can do to you; he can make you unsure of your own name- glances around at the sparse place, taking in the huge skylight with threads hanging off from what may have been a curtain, the grey floorboards, sighs and says “It’s a shithole. Where did you even find it?”

Jim doesn’t answer, only smiles and shrugs, says “It’ll do just fine. Hey look- there’s a cupboard large enough for your stuff.”

Seb rolls his eyes and groans, thinks 'is it always going to be like this’, but there’s no point asking because he already knows the answer.

-

 

**IV**

Carl Powers doesn’t deserve to die, not really, but Jim likes to think it was a good starting point. Carl Powers was the bully, and Jim was the pale kid with the funny accent- good at everything, except, maybe, keeping friends. He’s hidden in the corner of the pool, watching as the bully froze in the water, blood streaming from his mouth, nose, ears and he closes his eyes, feels his flesh ripple under the long-faded bruises, listens to the horror erupt around him, tries not to dance to the sound of their cries.

-

 

**V**

Jim’s bleeding still as Seb slams the car door behind them, watching carefully until his boss begins to topple over and he only just catches him, presses a hand to the gash on his head and tries not to whisper _for fuck’s sake._

“Jesus,” he breathes instead, holding the consultant up with one arm wrapped around his waist, “Game over.”

Jim lets out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering closed, whispers “No. No it’s not.”

Seb lugs him up the creaking stairs, elbowing their flat door open, says “You said there wasn’t enough semtex there to blow up the whole fucking pool.”

Jim’s eyes open and he’s blinking like an owl and grinning like a wolf, slurring, singsongs “It went smoooothly enough.” Seb stares at him for a moment.

“I’m actually shocked that you could stand to get out of the car,” says Seb, and on cue Jim’s legs finally give way completely, Westwood ripped in one place, damp with blood and Seb wonders if one leg might be broken but he doesn’t ask because Jim shudders, eyes rolling back, retches and vomits on the threadbare carpet.

Seb groans- that thing cost thousands- gently holds back a couple of jet strands of sweaty, brick-dusted hair, whispers “well that was inevitable,” decides it’s too late to get Jim to the bathroom, or even to the sink so he just strokes his hair and tries not to look until he’s finished. Strips him of his jacket- that’s ruined-, slides off his McQueen tie, peels off his Spencer Hart shirt- salvageable?- and tugs off shoes, socks, trousers. Scoops up the barely-conscious-any-more criminal and dumps him on the sofa- trying not to be too unceremonious about it. Stands up, shaky himself, takes the duvet from his own room, drapes it over Jim’s shivering body. Seb pauses, looks around and finally wonders _do we have any carpet-cleaning shit in this place?_

-

 

**VI**

Seb’s suits aren’t cheap anymore; wardrobe filled with D&G, Tom Ford, Paul Smith, Savile Row, none of which he’d ever buy for himself. Always two-piece, but he never wears the blazers; always shirt, braces, trousers, maybe a tie- or expensive jeans, shirt, scuffed chucks and leather. Blood at the cuffs, inside the collar. Silencers in the bottom of the wardrobe and the rifle in the sock drawer, never the same suit, always the same gun.

-

 

**VII**

When they cross the boss - employee, flatmate - flatmate, chief of staff - consulting criminal line they’re in Milan on business. Not the fun sort, the sort with dull (dull dull _dull_ ) men in nylon suits and bad foreign cups of coffee and offices that have a faint smell of TCP about them; “BOR-ING” singsongs Jim, smiles at Seb as they leave the building with that evil gleam in his eyes, says “Let’s burn this city down.”

So they’re on some high rooftop and Seb’s taking hit orders from Jim- “What a hideous suit; shoot him. He just spat;shoot him. I like the look of him; shoot him.”- and shot after shot Jim’s face lights up, his eyes ablaze as he gazes down at the screaming mass of people and Seb thinks he really has gone mad this time.

There’s a pause between hits and Jim’s knees hurt because he’s not used to kneeling on gravelly concrete and Seb’s nails are grubby and so is Jim’s suit from where Seb grabbed him and pulled him back when he was leaning precariously over the edge, and he catches Seb’s eyes and smiles. And that’s when Seb realises Jim doesn’t _feed_ on chaos, he  _absorbs_ it right into his skin, let it pulse through his veins and envenom his smile, and he’s not looking away until Jim does, but Jim doesn’t look away, instead takes Seb’s face in his hands and presses his lips to the marksman’s. Spontaneous, rough, the shrieks below their soundtrack as Seb overcomes the initial shock and their lips meld together, moving in some sort of rhythm, fuelled by epinephrine, no tongues this time but dirty hands through gelled hair.

Jim pulls away as abruptly as he had brought their lips together and Seb’s just staring as he smoothes back his hair, scans the city below, points and says “I don’t think he’s going to eat that. Shoot him.”

-

 

**VIII**

“You good at close-range?” asks Jim, idly toying with his old Smith and Wesson, eyes bored, palms five bullets and snaps the cylinder closed.

Seb takes it from his hands, aims it between Jim’s eyes, rests the muzzle on the bridge of his nose, playing along, saying “I’m good this close” and pulls back the hammer.

Jim smiles, a dark look on his face; mad, burning, lust and he’s not bored now, and his hand reaches up to hold Seb’s hand, hold the gun, finger curls around the trigger and tugs hard. The hammer slams down on an empty chamber and he doesn’t flinch in the slightest, eyes locked on Seb’s, whispers, voice a taunt, “Wanna play Russian roulette?”.

Seb can’t avert his gaze but shakes his head, stands up, pulls the gun away from Jim who’s still holding the barrel firmly to his own forehead, eyes still goading. Seb puts it away in the drawer under the kitchen sink, walking over so he stands behind Jim, kisses him on top of his head, hisses, “You’re a psychopath.”

Jim laughs softly, replies casually “It’s sexier that way.”

-

 

**IX**

Mycroft Holmes is the big brother and he doesn’t half act like it, being the British Government, the CIA, the Secret Service and Jim smiles as he sips tea with the man, listens intently, leaves the room, steals a packet of Black Russian cigarettes, skips down the front steps to meet Seb outside and says “I have a death warrant for Sherlock Holmes.”

They hail a cab, leap in and Jim asks Seb has he got his rifle, he has a bribery hit for him, is CBBC in the main BBC studios? Seb rolls his eyes, slams the door closed, knows this will end in flames.

-

 

**X**

“Fight back!” screams Jim, kisses him and bites a little, breaks away, looks in Seb’s eyes and slaps him.

Seb gasps, slaps him back, and Jim’s head snaps to the side, he laughs and Seb grabs his white wrists, flips him onto his back, hand around his throat, digs his nails in and smiles.

Jim doesn’t breathe, can’t breathe and his eyes are wide as he chokes out “That’s more like it.”

He claws over the assassin’s hand, blunt nails dragging red lines over tanned flesh. But Seb still grips and Jim’s eyes don’t focus, lips beginning to turn a bit blue so with shaking hands he grabs blonde hair, pulls Seb’s head down and kisses him again, desperate. Seb lets go and Jim breaks away, crawling out and coughing, retching, gasping. Seb’s hand shoots out and grabs Jim’s hair, twists his head round and their lips crush, angry, fire on their tongues, dancing together inside hot mouths. Seb’s fingers tremble as he unbuttons Jim’s shirt, and Jim just rips Seb’s, and they tug off each other’s bloodstained clothes, chuck them in the corner of the room, and they roll around, bare skin on splintering floor boards, obscene moaning and Seb drags himself up, drags Jim up and slams him against the wall.

It’s cold and hard, and they’re hot and they’re hard too, panting, slick with sweat. Jim doesn’t weigh much, wraps his legs around Seb’s waist, still pulling at hair, kissing with teeth and tongues and moans. Seb breaks away for a second, catching his breath, looks in Jim’s eyes, and, by now, Jim knows that look. He squeezes his eyes shut, rests his mouth on the marksman’s left shoulder, and Seb angles his dick up into him and Jim suppresses a scream, teeth clamp down hard. He squirms against Seb’s thrusts- erratic, no romance, just _fuck_ \- groans as his Seb’s hand wraps around his dick and strokes him in time with his un-rhythmic rhythm. He digs his nails into his shoulder blades and Seb leaves crescent moons in Jim’s thigh. Jim’s throat is white, too white for Seb’s liking, so he kisses his Adam’s apple, nips with his canines, sucks until he can taste copper. Jim’s eyes are closed and his head’s thrown back and his breath is shallow, quick, infiltrated by groans. Seb wants to capture him just like this, forever, sweat rolling in small beads from his messed-up hair, down his cheekbones, clinging onto his long eyelashes, lips parted. He pushes his hips up harder, hits something inside Jim that makes him scream, makes Seb breathless, does it again and watches Jim writhe, shuddering, clenching around him and they collapse, burnt, sticky, burning and panting.

Seb pulls out, rolling onto his back, eyes closed and their chests heave in sync, bathe in the moonlight from the huge skylight- still un-curtained. Seb turns his head, opens his eyes. Jim’s are still closed, shadows thrown across his face, lips still parted, white-pale, patches on his neck already dark purple and Seb thinks, maybe, he looks beautiful. He turns away before the temptation to trace the shapes of his face get the better of him, reaching up to the glass coffee table, drags off the nicked packet of black Sobranies, takes one between two fingers, lights it, brings it to his lips, inhales.

“Next time,” says Jim, and Seb turns to see his eyes open, staring up, “if I tell you to, shoot the bastard.”

Seb smirks, blows smoke in his face, says, “ _Bang_.”

“ _Cunt_ ,” says Jim, nabs the cigarette and smiles.

-

 

**XI**

If James Moriarty is a spider then Sherlock Holmes could be a butterfly, flashy, showy, soaring, but _no_ , Jim thinks. Sherlock Holmes isn’t a butterfly. A moth would be more precise, because Jim knows Holmes sees everything, every detail, every last thing, but in the quickest of moments he can be blinded by temptation, he can’t resist a case- the jewels, the bank, the prison, the stolen children- he can’t resist a flame and Jim smiles to himself, knows what to do and _God, will Sherlock Holmes burn_.

-

 

**XII**

Seb doesn’t want to go along with this kamikaze mission.

“It’s fucking crazy. You’ll get yourself killed,”

Jim grins that hound grin and says “Where’s the fun if there’s no risk?” He’s lead on the sunken sofa of their shit apartment, suited up, hair slicked back, phone in hand, screen glowing, reads-

_Come and play, St Bart’s hospital rooftop- SH_   
_Ps: Got something of yours you might want back_

Seb rolls his eyes, nigh on screams in frustration, wants to rip that fucking grin right off Jim’s face as he stands up, takes Seb by the shoulders and says softly “Do you trust me?”.

This makes Seb laugh, but there’s no humour in it, his eyes are somewhat sad as he says “On occasion.”

Jim smiles, and maybe that’s a bit sad, too, kisses him slowly and Seb can taste excitement mingled with something like mourn.

“He’s so beautiful, Sebastian,” whispers Jim and Seb’s heart twinges, won’t admit he’s jealous of Sherlock fucking Holmes, never, “But I have to watch him burn.”

“Don’t,” whispers Seb right back, “leave it, now,” but it’s pointless, because Jim Moriarty is deaf to anything akin to pacifism so he sighs, says instead “Can you watch him burn if he kills you first?"

Jim smiles, definitely sad, this time, like he knows something Seb doesn’t.

-

 

**XIII**

John Watson is going back to an empty apartment tonight; a cold comfort to Seb as he returns alone as well. He watches, silent, as Jim falls, his finger twitches on the trigger but he doesn’t kill Sherlock Holmes, not then, not there, because then he would just die, and Seb finally realises what it’s like to want to watch the man’s heart blaze and Jim has kept his promise. Seb watches him call his doctor, watches him cry, watches him break, watches him _burn_ , watches him jump, and he leaves.

The flat is ghastly and vacant. Seb supposes it’s always been that way- they never invested in any furniture except for that rug, that sofa, the beds, the coffee table, they lived in hotels mainly, in any case- but Jim made it seem minimalistic. Not empty, like it always was. Seb slumps on that sofa, flings an arm over his eyes and wonders if, with all that blood on his hands, he can still be affected by death, but he guesses he must be because in hardly any time his sleeve is damp and his breath is short and his head is pounding and he bites his lip so hard it bleeds.

But slowly a bittersweet sense of victory grasps at his chest and it tastes like copper, but Seb smiles through a mouth of blood because he has seen Sherlock Holmes on fire, and finally Jim has won their fucking game.

-

 

**XIV**

Months later he steps just inside that shitty club in Croydon, phone in his hand, and is it the cold or is he trembling, because this is the place it started and he knows it was over, it’s been over since he put that gun between his lips, but he doesn’t want it to _end_ here. His eyes scan the sweating crowd and he smiles to himself when their eyes meet and he hits _send_ and waits.

-

 

**XV**

Seb thinks maybe he’s seen a ghost because James Moriarty can’t be here, not now, because he saw him swallow a bullet, saw him fall, blank eyes staring up and smiles at the sky and honey you should see him in a crown, because this one was dark red and it gleamed like molten gold and if Sherlock Holmes is on the side of the angels then lying there Jim could have been a glorious, bloody saint of the Darkest Order.

And Seb saw him there, dead, but now he’s there, he’s here face pale, stoic, eyes steady, Seb’s phone buzzes and he drags his eyes away, checks the screen, unknown contact, because a dead man’s number is of no use to anyone, hits _view_.

_I’m not dead, let’s have dinner._

Looks up and he’s still there, but his expression has changed a little, maybe happy, maybe sad, but never sorry, and his eyes are ablaze just as Seb remembers and something in Seb reawakens; ignites.


End file.
